


M is for Mourning

by elldotsee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, At least Season 4 divergent, Garridebs moment, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Castle (TV), M/M, Not John or Sherlock's death, Not terribly graphic depiction of violence, Post-Season/Series 03, Series 4 maybe didn't happen, Supportive John, not worse than the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 08:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: Borrowed a little bit of plot inspiration from Castle, do forgive me. It had a very "garridebs" feel to it and I just knew it was a story that needed to be told with our boys. The rest fell into place easily.





	M is for Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> Borrowed a little bit of plot inspiration from Castle, do forgive me. It had a very "garridebs" feel to it and I just knew it was a story that needed to be told with our boys. The rest fell into place easily.

_It was an uncharacteristic flash of sunlight on an otherwise overcast day, a glint of metal from behind a tree, a glimpse of yellow in a sea of black mourning dress. It was all the hairs standing up on the neck of a certain_ _British Army doctor and_ _Captain_ _in the_ _Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. It was intuition, or stupidity, poor self-preservation or sentiment. John didn’t think about any of this. Not consciously, at least. In fact, his brain seemed to white out completely half a second before his body made the decision to **move-protect-shield**. His entire being was narrowed down to one pinpoint – Save Sherlock Holmes. _

 

Sherlock pulled on his black-on-black suit; shirt, trousers, jacket, socks, shoes, moving slowly, much more slowly than his usually rhythm, as if dressing underwater, or in a sea of honey. His brain felt foggy, perhaps grief? Could be the lingering effects of the diazepam he had taken last night. Even with the pill, he hadn’t managed more than 4 restless hours before he was up and pacing the flat, hands shaking, eyes staring blankly, seeing nothing, feeling…nothing. The tinnitus in his right ear was still prominent, likely from the gun that had been closest to him when it was fired, or possibly the explosive combination of three weapons firing nearly simultaneously in a small space. Sherlock had been delicately debriefed upon returning to London, though he was certain he had still not been given all the details. Too many things didn’t add up. He continued his pacing in front of the fireplace, wanting to connect the missing pieces, to make sense of this mess, yet afraid to disturb the delicate shroud of numbness that was precariously draped over him.

John’s hand on his back startled him and he flinched. John withdrew his hand, looking apologetic. Sherlock shrugged and walked to get his coat. He wanted this part to be over. He wanted to peel back the layer of stupid, numb _nothing_ and feel something again. He was itching to slide the mask of cold indifference and even hostility back into place, the one that made everyone’s eyes skitter away in fear, rather than ooze in sympathy. But he found he couldn’t even muster that. The mask was simply…gone, lost, just like him. He wasn’t angry with Mycroft for once, or John, or even Mary, though the last one would be the most logical. He was just tired. The flight from Morocco three, no- _four_ -days ago had been long and tense. The two MI6 agents onboard had kept up a clipped, terse conversation via their earpieces with the ground agents. Sherlock had tuned them out, staring out the window for the entire flight, speaking to no one. John had been a solid presence next to him, sensing his apparent need for silence. Most likely John thought he had retreated into his mind palace and that was just fine.

John shifted in the seat next to him now in the sleek black car, reaching for the door handle and clearing his throat, softly bringing Sherlock back to the present. Their eyes met across the cold leather seat.

“Ready?” John asked. Sherlock nodded and John slid out of the car, leaning back in to collect his umbrella from the floor. The sky was gunmetal grey, stretching expressionless and bleak over the cemetery. Several matching black cars were lined up on the gravel drive. There were a few neat rows of chairs surrounding the tasteful ebony casket. John and Sherlock made their way to the front and took the first two seats on the left. Sherlock stared straight ahead, back stiff and shoulders held rigidly. His mouth was pressed into a firm line. He steepled his hands in his lap and pressed matching pairs of fingers together, one at a time. Press, release. John stood up and crossed into the small aisle. Sherlock heard his murmuring, couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t move his head. He traced an edge of chrome moulding with his eyes until another light touch on his arm and a hand under his elbow guided him up the two steps onto the erected platform. A small white pedestal was centered on the platform and Sherlock took his place behind it, blinking out at the watery faces, trying to block out the sniffling sounds. He swallowed, his throat feeling suddenly dry and tight. John held a water bottle out to him, cap already unscrewed. He took a grateful drink and John took it back, replaced the cap, set it on the wooden floor of the platform. He sucked in a breath. His deep baritone rumbled in his own chest as it flowed out and up, sounding much more calm and somber than he felt.

“Mycroft was—“

A sound like zipping plastic, a pop, someone shouting his name and then pain exploded from his shoulder and left ear. His head bounced off the edge of the platform, his leg kicked out and knocked over an arrangement of crimson roses. He tasted blood in his mouth and was certain he had bitten his tongue. He held his breath and waited for the flood of pain, the white-hot sear to rip through him, but it never came. He opened his eyes, and was aware of a small gasping sound. For a moment, he thought it might be coming from his own mouth. But his brain suddenly clicked back online and _oh!_ He was on his knees then, scrambling towards the sound, the person making the sound just a few feet away, eyes screwed shut against the pain as he tried to raise up on one elbow. Sherlock wrapped one of his own long arms around John’s torso, holding him partially off the ground. His other hand, covered in bright red blood- John’s blood, not his own- scrabbled up and down John’s sides until he heard John gasp. He looked down. A graze, low on John’s right side, a hand-width above his hipbone. He felt an animalistic growl form in the deepest recess of his being and he bit it back. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pressed it into his side.

“Push. Hard. Stop the blood flow. Just a scrape, but going to bleed a bit.” John gasped out before letting his eyes slide closed.

“John. John!” Sherlock heard his voice rise in desperation. His vision flashed red as his head whipped around, scanning. Up here on the platform, time had slowed down. In reality, it had scarcely been two minutes since the shot had disturbed the hushed peacefulness of the stately cemetery. The guests were all hunkered down, wide-eyed and whispering frantically. Sherlock froze. He wanted to run, to hurt, no- to _tear apart_ the person who had done this. He glanced down at John, at his hand pressing into his side, holding John’s life force in his body. He heard his name, but it sounded far away, through a tunnel into the earth perhaps. Then, a shout and another crack of a gun, even further away. _Enough_. He leapt to his feet, intent on disallowing _anyone.else._ to be struck. He was just about to launch himself off the platform when a solid mass of a man stepped in front of him. He threw out an arm to stop Sherlock.

“Apprehended, sir.”

All the air whooshed out of Sherlock and he was back on his knees. He crawled back over to John, shaking, weak, vision blurring. He clutched at him, feeling him chilled and trembling. Shock. With some difficulty, Sherlock ripped off his coat and hunched over John, pulling the shorter man's head to his shoulder and pressing into his side with his hand again. He dragged his coat around both of them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a slim figure slip back into the now-frantic crowd. He twisted around to follow the distinctly female form and recognized Mycroft’s assistant. Her normally stoic expression had slipped just a fraction; her eyes were a bit wide and her hair had loosened. She lifted her eyes and met Sherlock’s, then gave a discreet nod. Her gaze slid down to John and her expression tensed minutely, then smoothed. Another nod, then she closed her eyes briefly, pressing her fingertips to her temple before turning back to the other agent.

Sherlock looked down at John again and started when he saw the creeping grey tinge to his skin. He yelped, patting his cheek frantically and shouting his name.

“John. John! Please. Please…” His voice cracked and his own mask was obliterated. He clutched John to him, allowing the tears to fall now. “No. No, not John too. Please.” Sherlock pressed his mouth against John’s forehead and murmured into the grooves there. “Please. I love you, John. Stay.”

He felt a brief movement then, a shift in the body entwined beneath him. John’s eyes slid open. They were glassy and unfocused, but full of warmth and Sherlock _clung_ to it. He felt cold, drifting aimlessly, unmoored. A siren sounded far off, coming closer. John opened his mouth and Sherlock leaned in. John’s voice was husky.

“Never knew. Me too.”


End file.
